hey
asked for my messenger,' said the Pure One, turning again to
repose.
"Lo, _he comes_!"

With the last spoken word there came into the sight of those who were
collected together a person of stern yet engaging appearance. His hands
and face were the colour of mulberry stain by long exposure to the sun,
while his eyes looked forth like two watch-fires outside a wolf-haunted
camp. His long pigtail was tangled with the binding tendrils of the
forest, and damp with the dew of an open couch. His apparel was in no
way striking or brilliant, yet he strode with the dignity and air of a
high official, pushing before him a covered box upon wheels.

"It is Tung Fel!" cried many who stood there watching his approach,
in tones which showed those who spoke to be inspired by a variety of
impressive emotions. "Undoubtedly this is the seventh day of the month
of Winged Dragons, and, as he specifically stated would be the case, lo!
he has come."

Few were the words of greeting which Tung Fel accorded even to the most
venerable of those who awaited him.

"This person has slept, partaken of fruit and herbs, and devoted an
allotted time to inward contemplation," he said briefly. "Other and
more weighty matters than the exchange of dignified compliments and the
admiration of each other's profiles remain to be accomplished. What, for
example, is the significance of the written parchment which is displayed
in so obtrusive a manner before our eyes? Bring it to this person
without delay."

At these words all those present followed Tung Fel's gaze with
astonishment, for conspicuously displayed upon the wall of the Temple
was a written notice which all joined in asserting had not been there
the moment before, though no man had approached the spot. Nevertheless
it was quickly brought to Tung Fel, who took it without any fear or
hesitation and read aloud the words which it contained.

"TO THE CUSTOM-RESPECTING PERSONS OF CHING-FOW.

"Truly the span of existence of any upon this earth is brief and
not to be considered; therefore, O unfortunate dwellers of
Ching-fow, let it not affect your digestion that your bodies are
in peril of sudden and most excruciating tortures and your Family
Temples in danger of humiliating disregard.

"Why do your thoughts follow the actions of the noble Mandarin
Ping Siang so insidiously, and why after each unjust exaction do
your eyes look redly towards the Yamen?